


Pick Me Up At Seven?

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Date Night, Gift for a friend, Hope you feel better!, M/M, Oops, Sherlock's Getting Ready and all that good stuff, Sherlock's inner monologue, Teenlock, just a bunch of relationship-y feels, kind of, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Date Night, kids. That's all there is to it, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick Me Up At Seven?

**Author's Note:**

> Started out as my own little thing, but ended up as a gift to special little lady. :) <3 xx
> 
> ((Stupid endings are stupid, but it was all I could think of. #sorry))

_Thwack._

“Dammit, no.”

_Thwack._

“No, no, no, that’s all wrong.”

_Thwack._

“Fuck!”

Sherlock crumpled up another stuffy love letter, and tossed it towards the bin, missing, as per usual. He collapsed backwards, onto his stupid mattress and his stupid curls got all strewn around and his stupid eyes bored into his stupid ceiling and everything was stupid, stupid, _stupid!_

And then his mobile buzzed.

**Hey, angel, up for a date tonight? Angelo’s got our window free. x JW**

Okay, not _everything_ , then.

Sherlock flushed to the pet-name John always favoured. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t not. He was always inferior to John’s affections. He was never as loving or appreciative, as much as he desired to be. It was difficult to physically express how dear John was to Sherlock, how necessary he was for Sherlock’s well-being.

_Pick me up at seven? x SH_

**It’s a date, gorgeous. I’ll be there. See you then. :) x JW**

Sherlock quirked a lovesome little smile, and settled his mobile on his pillow, before heaving himself to his feet, and scurrying off to his personal en-suite. He peeled off his school clothes, dropping them messily atop the hamper. _Remember to apologise to the maids._

He fiddled with the knobs of his bathtub, till the cascading water was bordering on scalding, to exaggerate mildly. The heat soothed his cumbersome worries. He foamed up the bath with a excessive eruption of bubbles, and switched on a swingy 50s record album. John adored those goody-two-shoes love songs, so Sherlock made an honest effort to equally enjoy their qualities. He sank into the soapy concoction, till his chin was dusted with tiny, transparent circles. He hummed along with Elvis as he scrubbed himself, ridding his skin of the distasteful accessories of the day: perspiration, muck from the unkind shoulders of the dumb-end of the rugby team he’d knocked heads with, and miscellaneous oddities.

Once he was all lathered up, he cleared his hands, before pouring a good dollop of shampoo into his palm, rubbing the two together before threading his fingers through his inky ringlets, tugging out all the sparse knots. He patted his damp curls down afterwards, and washed his hands beneath the water once more, before gathering the hand-held shower tap, and switched a particular knob, allowing water to flush out effortlessly. He clenched his eyes shut, and let the water gush over him, the soapiness drifting off his his body languorously. He stood once his torso was cleansed and hair was all rinsed out, and splashed his legs and feet, before flipping the tap off, and settling the nozzle back in its former position.

He stepped onto the fluffy mat awaiting him, and collected a freshly-dried, still warm towel, patting his curls tenderly, not wishing to have it puff up everywhere, as they did so often. He rubbed down every visible area needed, before tying the towel loose and low on his hips, and padding over to the vanity. He scrubbed his face with a cleanser his mother had gifted him with, despite being incredibly aware of his baby-smooth complexion. He plucked his peppermint toothpaste from its secure little holder, and worked his pearly-whites till they were spiffed up well, and his breath was sweet enough to soak in. He continued to toy with his face and torso, though, running his fingers along the area of his rib cage, thankful it had thickened. Since his relationship with John Watson had blossomed, he'd been eating more, as well taking splendid care of his body. He'd kicked the fags, slept every night, and ate supper almost every evening. He was healthy, and John was proud of him. John's told him so, and the exact memory made tears spring up. He sniffled, and rubbed his eyes dry as he returned to his vast bedroom, the tune from the record still wafting. He rummaged through his array of cupboards, deciding on the ensemble that always got a half-hour song from his boyfriend, at the very least. He held his plum button-down and snug black trousers, the combination that John positively adored. He dressed himself slowly, purposefully, taking his time with it all, enjoying it. After he couldn’t tug at a single button more, nor examine anymore angles of his trousers, he gathered his comb, and deftly traversed deep into the mess of inky wilderness.  He succeeded in taming the mass, and he laced his shoes with a grateful little sigh, only to have his mobile vibrate beside him, startling him.

It was 18:55.

Only five more minutes, thank the gods.

He collected his jacket, and skipped down the steps, giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, a goodbye, and a promise to be home before midnight. She wished him well, and he was off to await John's arrival, fidgeting near the bushes. A flurry of blond hair appeared round the corner, and Sherlock bounded towards it, barreling into his boyfriend with a puff of hot air.

"Oh, baby, you okay?" came that soothing baritone, casual and raspy from the latest rugby match on the Telly. Gorgeous.

Sherlock hummed, and stuffed his face deeper into the warm juncture of John's neck and shoulder, sighing contentedly.

"Fine. Definitely fine."

"Missed me, did you?" John brushed his callused fingers through Sherlock's precious ringlets, his unoccupied hand resting upon that curvaceous, clothed hip.

"Immensely."

“You should’ve told me to come by earlier, then, so that you didn’t have to wait.”

“I like waiting for you. It gives me time to think.”

“‘Bout what, beautiful?”

“You. Us. Me. Everything, really.”

John laughed brightly, and looped an arm round Sherlock’s middle, tugging him close enough to press their lips together in a single kiss.

“You’re really somethin’ special, baby, you know that?”

“Mm, you’ve told me enough times to understand that, yes.”

“And I’ll keep saying it till the end of forever, my sweet. Now come on, Angelo’s got a special for us, and I’m starved.”

Sherlock nodded, and John nosed at his jaw, kissing the underside affectionately as they set off, the air feeling much lighter than it had only moments before. Maybe it was because of the hidden letter in Sherlock’s breast pocket, or maybe it was the security of their ever-lasting relationship, but Sherlock felt happy, and for once, didn’t quite care why.


End file.
